


A Test of Strength and Some Rum

by iwtv



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Drinking, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, angst turned into humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 13:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4394255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwtv/pseuds/iwtv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His words left no room for jokes or argument, and Flint felt the need to stand and eye his own crew, even though he really wished Vane would just go away and leave him to drink in peace. That thought led to another, more interesting idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Test of Strength and Some Rum

 

Of course James took Miranda’s death hard.

 

As soon as they were clear to sail into Tortuga for refitting he’d gone to his quarters and started drinking. He didn’t usually drink to get drunk and the crew knew this, but today he did. However Captain Flint quickly found out he didn’t want the solitude of the captain’s quarters and all the nasty thoughts that came with it so he drank above deck for the remainder of the afternoon. After a few glassfuls of rum he knew he was putting the crew on edge but he didn’t care. 

That evening, as they docked the Spanish Man o’War in Tortuga’s harbor and returned to solid earth Flint immediately went to the bar at the brothel. He found a comfortable and dimly lit table and paid extra for a full decanter of rum. He wanted to remain perfectly numb for an indeterminate amount of time and to forget both the past and present.

So was his mood when he spotted Charles Vane making his way over to his darkened corner.

Vane pulled out a chair and sat down beside him, inhaling his cigar and gazing around the brothel and at their collective crew members enjoying the drink and pretty women around them. He turned lastly to Flint.  
“You look fucking miserable.”  
Flint, completely leaned back in his chair with his hand glued around the decanter, scoffed at him.  
“Thank you. You don’t exactly look sharp yourself.”  
The mischievous light in Vane’s eyes faded slightly. Flint knew he’d been drinking heavily as well since their departure from Charles Towne. Flint knew news of Eleanor Guthrie’s arrest had to have hit him hard; it didn’t take a mathematician to discern the deeper layer to their relationship. To the crew he no doubt looked strong and pissed off, but to Flint he looked as tired and beaten as Flint himself felt. Vane grunted in response, then said softly, “Women.”

It was all he said. Flint looked at him and looked away, understanding Vane was referring to Miranda as much as he was Eleanor. They both knew that single word was the real reason of their current mood, even though they would never admit it. Vane met his gaze, for once not trying to appear self-important to the other pirate captain. Flint slid the bottle of rum over to Vane’s hand. Vane accepted it.  
“I thought we might have a game,” Vane said at length.  
Flint scoffed at him again but Vane leaned in towards him and spoke his mind anyway.  
“A test of strength between us. All in good spirits, of course. An arm wrestling match.”  
Flint languidly sat up in his chair and turned his attention to the other captain, a smirk underneath his mustache.  
“Aren’t we a bit old for such games?”  
Vane took another drag from the cigar. “We do this and we show the crews we are truly on good terms. In addition, we distract ourselves from shitty recent events and we entertain the men.”  
It was hard for Flint to argue with that reasoning, and after a moment of consideration Flint rolled his eyes and sighed.  
“Fine.”  
Vane stood up and slowly walked around the small table.  
“Then it’s settled,” he announced in a loud voice, looking squarely at Flint. “A show of strength between captains, all in good jest.”  
He turned toward the rest of the brothel, having gained the attention of most of his and Flint’s crew members.  
“Ten rounds of arm wrestling. The winner may take with him the pride of his victory, but even so the loser will have been a good challenge and no man on either crew is to denounce his abilities.”

His words left no room for jokes or argument, and Flint felt the need to stand and eye his own crew, even though he really wished Vane would just go away and leave him to drink in peace. That thought led to another, more interesting idea. If he was going to do this, he might as well make it worth his while. He moved to stand beside Vane. Vane looked at him, suddenly concerned by Flint’s calculating expression. Flint spoke assuredly and with confidence.  
“The loser of each round must drink either a full glass of ale or take a shot.”  
An excited wave of encouraging whoops and shouts went through the brothel as the men began crowding close to them. Flint looked at Vane and smiled smugly. A tiny ghost of a smile was on Vane’s lips.  
“All right then. Can’t say no now,” he said quietly.

They began in earnest, each of them taking up a chair directly across the table from one another, the rum decanter in the middle. Flint peeled off his coat and laid it over his chair. He rolled up his sleeves to much cheering and whoops; Vane did the same. Flint was acutely aware that most of his crew had shuffled to his side of the brothel and Vane’s crew amassed on the other. For reasons unknown this filled him with a new vigor, and he temporarily forgot his woes and focused on the task at hand.

He and Vane took up positions with opposite arms, grasping one another’s hand and resting their elbows firmly on the table. Vane’s quartermaster mitigated the game, shouting loudly, “Begin!”

The room was instantly filled with a roar of shouts and bellows and whoops, which both Flint and Vane drowned out as they pressed against the other’s arm. Flint fixed his gaze on Vane. They each had their other arm behind their back. Flint leaned into the struggle, muscles straining against Vane’s as the cries around them grew ever louder. Vane calmly stared back at him, though the strain began to show in his face.

At long last Flint’s arm caved under the pressure and a roar went up from Vane’s crew. Vane stood for a second, arms raised to accept his own praise. Flint felt the heat rising in him, his adrenaline beginning to pump as he poured himself a glass of rum and promptly began downing it. He had only begun to drink when Vane had approached him, and his stomach was hungry for the drink. The seeming ease and voracity with which he finished his drink caused his crew to roar in appreciation of him, a sound which rivaled that of Vane’s crew only moments before. This filled Flint with a new sense of purpose. He grinned at the other captain as he slammed the glass down. Vane kept a mask over his face as he sat back down and flexed his fingers before planting his elbow on the table once again.

Flint won the second round. He had broken out in a sweat, but so had Vane. He didn’t stand as his crew roared out their cheers around him but only smiled his smug grin at Vane, whose upper lip curled ever so slightly in disapproval. He ordered a shot of a darker rum than what Flint’s decanter held, eliciting a shout of approval from his side of the brothel. He raised an eyebrow at Flint, grinning.

By the time they’d reached the eighth round they were nearly tied, with Flint one win ahead, which also meant they’d both been drinking heavily. Flint’s mind was woozy with shot after shot of liquor, yet both men seemed to have slid into a sort of comfort with the repetitive action of their contest. They were switching between their arms now; Flint’s muscles burned as much as the liquor did yet he kept on. At some point they had agreed to go two extra rounds. Flint became aware that Vane had slumped down in his chair across from him and was about to poke fun before he realized he’d done the same. The crew’s jeers and cheers around him had become like a wall of muffled noise. He planted his elbow on the table, flexing his fingers sloppily. Just as ungracefully Vane once again clamped his hand onto Flint’s. 

***

There was a ceaseless pounding in his head that finally forced Flint’s eyes open. He recognized his personal quarters on the ship, but the view was all wrong. Instead of staring up from his hammock he was facing the door—from the floor. With a moan he also realized the pounding was not only in his head but also coming from said door, and a man was yelling on the other side of it.  
“Captain? Captain Flint, can you hear me?”  
“Yes, yes, damn you. What is it?” he shouted back, his head throbbing with the effort as he struggled up.  
“Captain, the crews are beginning to wonder when you and Captain Vane are coming topside. You’ve been out for nearly half a day.”  
“In a minute,” Flint shouted back impatiently. The voice on the other side became meek.  
“Yes sir,” the voice said and Flint heard boot steps walking away. Flint struggled the rest of the way to his feet. He had no memory of boarding the ship last night. A moan came from somewhere behind him. He turned and found John Silver still sleeping on the window seat, tucked in under a blanket while his amputated leg healed. It didn’t appear as though he’d awoken and knew that he and Vane were in the room.

He nudged the other sleeping, snoring form on the floor with his boot.  
“Vane.”  
Vane, sprawled out like a corpse beside him, made an ‘mmm’ sound in his throat but otherwise remained as still as a statue. Flint pushed on his arm with the flat of his boot this time.  
“Vane. Get up.”  
Still nothing. Flint finally kicked him in the ribs, causing just enough pain for the prone form to finally react.  
“Charles! Get up.”  
Vane’s eyes shot open and he sat up, holding his side where Flint had kicked him. He raised two bleary eyes to the other captain.  
“Fucking hell. What the fuck?” he muttered, looking around him.  
“An excellent question,” replied Flint, rubbing at his temples. “Pull yourself together. We need to take command.”

After doing their best within Flint’s quarters to wash their faces and fix their clothes the two men headed topside and tried not to blink painfully in the sunny afternoon. They were out to sea once more. Flint avoided meeting the eyes of the crew, unsure whether he’d see admiration or smirks on their faces. Flint found Mr. Scott and inquired as to their heading, the wind, and the crews. Neither he nor Vane dared inquire as to how they had gotten back on the ship from Tortuga—the only possible answer was that the crew had hoisted their inebriated bodies up from the longboat in what must have been a ridiculous looking ordeal. 

Vane saw to his men and, after each of them putting their quartermasters in charge, took below deck again. Flint came back into his quarters after Vane, closing the door with a relieved sigh and letting his shoulders sag.

“Jesus,” said Vane. They both rested a moment, then Vane asked about the inevitable.  
“So did you ask who won the contest?”  
“Of course not. Too…”  
Flint trailed off, unwilling to finish his sentence. Vane looked at him through his brows.  
“Embarrassing?” he offered. Flint frowned and nodded. “And you?”  
Vane shook his head and chortled. “No fucking way.”  
“Guess we’ll never know, then. Perhaps we could broach the subject after a while.”  
“You know they’ll not let go of this for a while,” said Vane with a grin. “Captains Flint and Vane, the fearless pirates, getting piss drunk at an arm wrestling match.”  
Flint winced. It was last thing he had wanted out of the evening, yet it could not be undone now. Vane sighed wearily.  
“I’ve got to sleep this shit off.”  
Without another word he peeled off his boots and flopped into Flint’s hammock.  
“What the fuck are you doing? Go bunk with your barbarian crew,” said Flint.  
In response Vane rolled over on his side and raised his middle finger to Flint. “You know I can’t, anymore than you can barely stand right now.”  
Flint snarled at him, though he knew Vane was right. He could have slept on the other window seat opposite Silver, but he’d spent too long sleeping on the hard wood of the floor as it was. His head felt as though it would split open any moment and the rest of his body felt puny. He took off his own boots and threw them angrily in the corner.  
“You absolute shit,” he said. “Move over.”

Vane mumbled protests, but neither man could muster enough energy to be their usual angry selves. So Flint climbed in the hanging piece of canvas beside Vane. He laid down in the opposite direction so that his head was next to Vane’s feet. Flint shoved them over until one of them slipped over the side.

“Keep your fucking feet away from me.”

“Shut the fuck up,” came the muffled reply. Vane had covered his face with an arm and made no further movement. Flint’s own body quickly became heavy with fatigue. Just before he drifted off to sleep he thought of how ridiculous the two of them must look and, for the first time in a long time, a grin spread over his face and he laughed softly.***


End file.
